


Rejection

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [114]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23898589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: The absolute worst part of sitting out — and there are a lot of shitty parts about sitting out — is that he’s got to sit in the same box as the media, all giving him these side-eyes. He’d prefer to sit in the crowd with his family if he has to be a spectator, but of course, this isn’t about what he wants.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [114]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/849798
Comments: 25
Kudos: 313





	Rejection

The Oilers go to Calgary. And like, Jared’s not excluding himself in that. He’s on the flight, obviously, because scratched players travel with the team — the whole point of having more dudes on your roster than on the bench is so they’re there if someone gets hurt or sick last minute, or like, married a Flame and is subsequently getting punished for it.

So yeah, Jared’s going to Calgary, it’s just that instead of suiting up and getting on the ice he’ll be going to be watching the game in the press box, game day suit on all night instead of shucked for workout gear, then equipment. Jared guesses he should just be grateful he wasn’t like, left behind in Edmonton, told to meet them out in Vancouver. Not that he’d have stuck around if they had done that. What could they do, scratch him?

He sits beside Julius on the plane, as usual, though there’s a little more physical contact than there usually is, Julius periodically giving him these pats on the arm like ‘there there’ or, more likely, ‘buck up’. Possibly a mute ‘fuck Deslauriers’? Whatever they are, Jared knows it’s Julius doing his best to be supportive, that it’s him leaving his comfort zone to do it, and Jared appreciates it.

Jared heads to the hotel with the team, sticks around just long enough to get his room key, drop his bags off, change out of his travel suit into jeans and a t-shirt, before he’s right out the door again. It’s not a long walk to his apartment, and he feels this fundamental sense of relief as soon as he walks in the door, gives the concierge a smile and a wave as he heads for the elevator. Home.

Bryce isn’t home — morning practice — so Jared starts on lunch for the both of them. Thankfully there wasn’t a mandatory team lunch today. Breakfast tomorrow is a team one, and then they’re off for a quick practice in the morning, a break for lunch then pregame, game, early curfew because they’re flying out to Vancouver first thing the next morning, a whirlwind of a day he’s barely going to manage fitting in lunch at his parents’ in. Julius bowed out on coming over for lunch, and Jared can’t blame him: it’s making him tired just thinking about it, and he won’t even be playing the game.

Jared barely hears Bryce’s key in the lock before Bryce is behind him in the kitchen, chin on his shoulder and hands curling around his hips. He must’ve like, sprinted it. 

“If you want to eat you can’t distract me,” Jared says, and Bryce digs his chin in harder before he kisses Jared’s neck, making it very clear where lunch lies on his priority list. 

“No lunch?” Jared asks.

There’s a hint of teeth in the next kiss. 

“Ingrate,” Jared says, grinning into the kiss Bryce catches him in, but not grinning long. Too hard to maintain a grin when you’re busy trying to get someone undressed.

“We are not having sex in the kitchen,” Jared mumbles against Bryce’s mouth as he fights Bryce’s shirt buttons, and Bryce makes a disagreeable noise in response, but starts steering them towards their room, so that’s good.

They make it to the couch, and it’s probably a good thing Jared changed out of his suit, because he suspects he would have lost at least a few buttons of his shirt if he hadn’t. Bryce suddenly has like, seventeen hands, and all of them are demanding. He’s acting like he hasn’t Jared in years instead of weeks, which is mostly just saying that Jared can’t feel any of his extremities, he gets his dick sucked so great. Every time he thinks Bryce has reached the plateau of being the best at blow jobs, he figures out how to make it even better. It’s like. There’s probably a hockey metaphor in there, applying himself to his game, getting on the scoresheet, something, but Jared’s too come dumb to think of one.

“Gimme—” Jared says when he gets control of his mouth again, but Bryce does not give him the minute he was attempting to request, straddles Jared’s hips and streaks his chest like he’s marking his territory. Jared scowls at Bryce as he’s cleaning come off his chain in the bathroom, but Bryce is totally unrepentant.

Jared puts on his boxers and his t-shirt to finish prepping lunch, and Bryce follows him into the kitchen in just his briefs.

“No touching,” Jared says, while Bryce hovers over him. “We need to eat.”

“Give me twenty minutes at least, I’m not a superhero,” Bryce says. “Whatcha making me?”

“Nothing fancy, just rice and veg,” Jared says. He would have thrown in a protein, but the fridge has been woefully understocked in his absence. 

“Hmm,” Bryce says, and kisses Jared’s shoulder in a blatant violation of the no-touching policy. Jared will allow it. “Any team shit today?”

“They’re letting us run loose until curfew,” Jared says.

“Staying over?” Bryce asks.

“I can’t risk it,” Jared says.

Julius straight up told him he’d cover for him if asked, but Jared honestly doesn’t want to push it, because Deslauriers seems exactly the sort of petty who’d demand to see Jared in person at curfew, or at least demand one of the coaching staff sees him in person, and the last thing Jared needs is to hand him any ammo for his stupid homophobic crusade.

Bryce sighs.

“I can’t, Bryce,” Jared says.

“I know,” Bryce says.

“We’ll get a nap in together or something,” Jared says. He wants to sleep in his own bed just as much as Bryce wants him to.

“But that means less time,” Bryce complains.

“I know,” Jared says. “Sorry.”

“It’s dickwad’s fault, not yours,” Bryce says into Jared’s shoulder. Jared swears he can feel his pout through the fabric.

“Maybe I can drive down when we get back,” Jared says. “We’ve got a bit of a break.”

“Yeah,” Bryce says. “Anything I can do to help with lunch?”

“Set the table?” Jared says, because that’s about the only thing he trusts Bryce with.

It’s nice getting to eat with Bryce. That’s such a weak word, almost damning with faint praise, but Jared can’t think of a better one. Comforting, maybe? It feels right, feels like it’s where Jared should be, feet tangled with Bryce’s under the table, Bryce complimenting the meal like Jared made something great instead of just his lazy go-to. Though like, it’s probably is the first time any of the pans were taken out since Jared was last here, so the bar’s pretty low.

They take a nap together. Bryce pouts about it, but it’s part of both their daily schedules, one that shouldn’t be skipped, and yeah, it eats away some of the time they have together, but Jared also gets to curl around Bryce, watch him fight sleep like he’s a grumpy baby or something, press a kiss to his warm brow when he finally surrenders to the routine, breathing soft and even, fingers curled around Jared’s wrist, like if he doesn’t hold on, Jared will leave.

He has to, eventually. They order in Thai from their favourite place for dinner, because it’s that or scrounge around the cupboards trying to make something work. Eat it on the couch, overlapping everywhere, to the point Bryce keeps accidentally elbowing him as he eats, and Jared’s lucky he doesn’t spill soup all over himself. Nice, like lunch was, but curfew looms, and even though Jared’s going to see Bryce in like, twelve hours, he lingers at the door, barely makes it back in time, and then only because he half jogged the last two blocks to the hotel, phone leering a two minute warning at him.

He cuts it close: less than a minute after curfew there’s a curt knock on the door. Jared exchanges a glance with Julius, a silent ‘who’s stuck getting up?’, but considering Jared’s probably the reason it’s happening — they periodically check in on at least the ELC guys to keep them honest, but Jared suspects this is not a random spot check — he gets up and goes to the door.

“Good kid,” Mulligan says, then turns on his heel and walks away. Terrific efficiency, that guy. Jared has deja vu about Juniors right now, except it made more sense to check in on a bunch of teenagers. Totally proves it was non-random too, because Mulligan didn’t even check if Julius was there. He could have been out partying.

Julius is bobbing his head to whatever Finnish death metal band he’s obsessed with at the moment — they all sound the same to Jared, and he bets they would even if they were singing — screaming? — in English — while peeling an orange with his teeth like a total weirdo.

Okay, he couldn’t have been out partying, but still.

“You’re so weird,” Jared says, because he is, and it’s not like he can hear Jared over the shit he claims is music.

Julius spits out a piece of peel.

“And _gross_ ,” Jared says, and pulls out his phone.

 _Julius is weird and gross and I want to be at home with you._ , Jared texts Bryce. 

_i love u too_ , Bryce texts back, the sap.

 _He’s literally peeling an orange with his teeth._ Jared says, then snaps a picture of an oblivious Julius to send to Bryce.

Bryce sends back a bunch of emojis that look nauseated. Jared’s emoji use is pretty much restricted to hearts and smileys, worn down by exposure from Bryce, who uses them constantly, but he thinks he should add that one to his rotation, starting right this moment. He shoots the nauseated face Julius’ way.

Julius looks down at his phone when it buzzes, then pushes his headphones down, scowling at Jared. “What?” he asks.

“Peel the orange with your _hands_ ,” Jared says.

He really should have expected the half-peeled orange that comes flying his way. 

“Go back to your husband,” Julius mutters.

“Would if I could,” Jared says.

“They won’t check again,” Julius says.

They almost definitely won’t, but that’s a risk Jared probably shouldn’t take. 

_i miss u_ , Bryce texts.

 _I saw you twenty minutes ago, loser._ , Jared texts back, then, before Bryce can send him a sad emoji, _I miss you too._

*

The next day sucks. Like, in itself it doesn’t, really — Jared spends time with Bryce and his family, and his dad pulled out all the stops for lunch, and his mom gave him the longest hug of his life, which was uncomfortable and comforting at the same time — but there’s a pall over everything from the moment he wakes up until he’s watching the puck drop, feeling stiff and wrong in his game day suit.

The absolute worst part of sitting out — and there are a lot of shitty parts about sitting out — is that he’s got to sit in the same box as the media, all giving him these side-eyes. He’d prefer to sit in the crowd with his family if he has to be a spectator, but of course, this isn’t about what he wants.

He feels — removed. Obviously, because he is, hundreds of feet up instead of shoulder to shoulder with guys on the bench, but it’s more than that. Numb, kind of. Less numb when the Oilers score first, a spark of something complicated in him — he wants them to win, of course, but it’s weird if they win without him — that gets blunted fast when the Flames tie it up. When Bryce ties it up. Because of course it’s Bryce.

Jared works very hard on keeping his face completely stoic when the goal goes in. It helps that Bryce just scored on Jared’s goalie, which tempers the flare of vicious satisfaction he feels, thinking of Deslauriers’ face right now. Jared doesn’t like it when people score on his goalies, and that includes his husband. It’s rude. And unfortunately happens a lot. Sucks every time. Probably sucks more for them, but it sucks for the rest of the team too, especially because it’s one more goal they have to score to stay alive.

They don’t stay alive.

Jared doesn’t know if they’d have won if he was on the ice, there’s no way to know that, but when Deslauriers fucked with the best line on the team and the Oilers only lost by one? They may have won it. They definitely could have.

It pisses him off. It’s funny, because he’s been mad since Mulligan told him about the scratch, if not as mad as, say, Bryce or his dad, but it isn’t until the final buzzer goes during a desperate shift by Julius’ line, the line Jared should have been on —

Jared’s so angry he can barely see straight, does his best to avoid everyone’s eyes as he walks out of the box, shoving his hands in his pockets because they’re shaking so hard it must be visible to everyone. His phone buzzes against his chest, once, twice, probably his mom, or dad, or Chaz or Raf or someone. Not Julius, who went down the tunnel so fast Jared knows he must be seething, Bryce, who is going to get called back onto the ice soon when they announce the three stars, probably going to get first star after a two goal night, the game winner.

Jared keeps his head down, keeps his hands hidden, shoulders through the crowd when he has to, not giving a shit if anyone recognises him, thinks it’s rude, mutters ‘excuse me’ over and over like a mantra as he goes around people, first in the arena, then through the swollen crowd spilling out into the streets, until he can finally hit the pace he needs to, calves burning by the time he gets to his and Bryce’s place. He’s still got energy to burn, too much, but he goes up anyway, sits on the couch, clumsily rips his tie off with hands that are still shaking.

“Fuck,” Jared says, too loud in the empty apartment. “Fucking —”

It echoes around him. 

They’re wheels up in nine hours. Less than ninety minutes until curfew, and maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should have gone back to the hotel to stew instead of getting not enough of Bryce again, the time so short he’s just going to feel worse when he leaves, feel cheated. He would have seen even less of Bryce if he was playing, so it’s not the scratch, except it is, it’s the scratch, and the distance, and he puts his fucking ass on the line every single time he steps on the ice, worked so fucking hard to get there, and —

Jared’s so tired.

“Hey,” he hears, he doesn’t know how much later, pulls his face out of his hands when he feels the couch dip under Bryce’s weight. His hair’s still damp, tie nowhere to be seen, like he fucked off the first second he could, rushed to get home. 

“Hi,” Jared says, and when Bryce wraps his arms around him, Jared collapses into him.

“They gave you first star, right?” Jared asks into Bryce’s chest.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“Good,” Jared says. “You deserved it.”

“Thanks,” Bryce says, then, “Sorry,” and Jared closes his eyes when he feels Bryce’s lips brush his hair.


End file.
